Thursday, June 7, 2007

okay, this poem just frustrates me. its not particularly brilliant, especially with the non-ending. but i like bits of it. so shall just put it up. the only thing i wrote for like, 18months. comments MUCH appreciated.


This city with its stone streets is not mine
Fought over by the men like boys today
Sitting in front of me with blood on their knuckles and scars under their eyes
Learning languages spoken by their enemies
The streets are spoken for and the girls are
Corners, defining men and air

The winds are political, they bend over the young
Caressing faces, shaping limbs, then they look up and smile
Marble, like the memory of a knife
And hit the old with gales, the useless with force, they destroy the unbending
The different, those who are outside, those on the news tonight

The winds say walk with me, or fight

There is glass on the streets, under shoes, there is glass in the air
The windows are shattered, there will be no hope tomorrow
Because tonight the bars stay open and prayer only speaks at dawn

Blood is keeping the city warm
The blood of mistaken identities in the park, in the parking lot
The blood in the vomit of the children studying to be doctors
Pretending not to be scared by the dead becoming familiar
Blood in the memories of old deaths, the old man trading cigarettes for warmth has his name on the wall for the Great Wars, the dead wars
The wars that the grandchildren that would be theirs are still fighting

They are restless in the old graveyards, they know it will be pointless

There is blood in the languages, the conquered who are accused of conquering.
There is blood in the spice, of the jewel in the crown, of the heathen dead
Blood in the accents of the living
Those who have traded their languages willingly,
Sell a past to buy a future, sell a future to buy today.


(see, no ending. argh.)

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